


Meander The Sacred Lot Of You

by Theboys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Cults, Grief/Mourning, Kid Fic, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Behavior, Pregnancy Kink, Violence, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-13 06:29:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5698405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s walking closer, autopilot, and he stops on a dime. He can the feel the tacky-sweep of blood under the soles of his boots; he knows that color better than life, or maybe, because of it.</p><p>Dean's forced to pay penance to a God he doesn't serve, and there's only one other person who loved the way he loves Sammy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for  
> [ this prompt ](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/105944.html?thread=40141528#t40141528) over at spn_kinkmeme. (Extreme spoilers if you care to read).
> 
> Title taken from Grandloves, by Purity Ring.
> 
> Addendum: I'm wary of warning for pivotal plot points in the tags, but there is a Major Character Death within, and I wanted to give fair warning for subject content. The prompt will give you the general outline of this fic, but I will state that the ending will be happy, (the journey, bittersweet). I have this finished, so I'm likely to post this in one or two more parts, depending on how I decide to divide it up. If you've decided to stick around, I hope you enjoy!

Sam’s eighteen when he’s gunned down in the middle of the sidewalk like a diseased mutt.

Dean’s not there; he’s home with Len, still struggling to push feeble limbs into cocooned sleeves, because he doesn’t want to bend and hurt her; she’ll be the best that’s left of him.

Dean fumbles on the catch of her onesie, too clumsy to be in charge of this life, epitome of A Thousand Things that Sammy gives him that make him too deformed to hold onto.

She’s sleepy; Dean’s probably kept her up well past her bedtime, but he’s weak for her Sam-eyes, ocean and church tangled to rest under a chuppa of white-blonde. 

She’s got his hair but she looks just like Dean’s brother, down to the heavy-slow blinks she makes when she’s tired, the snail-grabby way she reaches out for him.

Dean’s so wrapped up in her that it takes him an extra thirty minutes to realize Sammy isn’t home, back hunched over from all the words he’s carrying. They’re headed to Stanford in the fall and Sam’s been reading up early on all the lit from his first semester. 

Dean thinks it’s a damned waste of time to go about in school when no one’s making you, but hey, whatever floats Sammy’s boat.

Dean considers it, glances twice at the swamp of boxes scattered around the house. He’d gotten the majority of them from the liquor store, cast-off Hennessy brown and Bacardi-pale; versatility is a two-way mirror. 

Len’s head is cradled on the shelf of his shoulder, and he’s humming a stripped down version of No Quarter when he stiffens. Len wiggles restlessly, plastic-scrunch of powder and diaper against Dean’s forearm. 

Sam’s always home in time to say goodnight, never misses the chance, and there’s something pitiful and malignant carving up Dean’s stomach in repose. When Dean thinks about that evening, when he figures out how to remember; his prognosis is lacking every time. 

“Lenny,” Dean croons, and she’s shifting, can sense the rigidity of his body. She’ll wake up soon, and Dean can’t leave her here alone, Sammy’ll murder him.

Dean thinks this might be easier if they had anyone left to them, but they’re a triumvirate, Holy save one, and Dean’s suddenly, severely, blasphemous. 

Sam’s punctual to a fault.

Sam is not  _ late. _

He’s already made his decision even when he’s still in the throes of pretending he hasn’t. He bundles Len up in her best coat, twin pale of her eyes, slides milk-smooth limbs into sleeves, even though she’s squirming down like she wants to walk.

Dean can’t find her hat, and he’s being  _ loud,  _ heavy-metal drag of open cabinets, shoving their bedsheets down to the corner of the frame. Lenny’s crying now, and Dean spares her a worried look.

Her face is carnation-flushed, and she’s not a crier, barely whines, even when she wants something. She’s a hunter-child, adaptable in the worst manner. She reminds Dean of Sammy in every way that counts.

“Lenny.” Dean says, and it comes out terse. His little girl hiccups once and Dean’s hands are trembling too badly to zip his own jacket up, Dad’s leather clawing at his collarbone.

“LenLen,” Dean tries again, and it’s more absent than loving, but it’s the best he’s got for her right now. She’s dissolved into sand-wet gasps, sounds trapped high in her throat, and she’s snapping her feet against the cushion of the armchair. Her eyes are full, dew-green with stifled tears. 

Dean leans down and swoops her to the floor, tucks the violet of her hat onto her head. He flips her ears up and under the material, and she settles down when she sees him. She takes two unsteady steps in his direction, racked by sniffles as she is, and then Dean’s picking her up again.

“Gonna get you a snack when we get back home, huh?” Dean says stupidly, because he’s sorry he doesn’t have anyone close enough to watch her.

It’s cold.

It’s too cold for her to be out, and Dean’s fright transitions to despair when he wonders how Sammy could let them worry like this--when he knows Dean’ll come looking; he’s got Len and he can’t leave her behind. Dean doesn’t have the time to strap her into her stroller--gets the damn belts twisted round her waist anyway--and Len doesn’t want to wait; they’re going on an adventure.

They’re tripping down the sidewalk, and Lenny’s giggling, because Daddy’s moving trot-quick, one hand possessively splayed over the back of her head.

It’s not the nicest neighborhood, neither of them make quite enough for that, but it’s also not the downtrodden hole it could be. Dean makes most of the money; bartends from eleven to three on weekends, got his HVAC certification for the remainder. 

Dean’s usually inordinately proud of himself for that, but right now he’s cataloguing the three different routes Sammy could’ve used to walk home.

It’s ten at night, Sammy’d only use the well-lit one. Sam’s been born to this life same way as Dean, and he wouldn’t put himself in any unnecessary danger.

Lenny’s quiet now, her breath whisper-soft against Dean’s throat, and Dean pauses in his walk to unzip his own jacket and tuck her inside. Her body is warm next to his furnace-heart, and his breath catches as she snuggles in.

They’re a little more than halfway from home when Dean sees it, and he’s heard about out-of-body experiences, but he never thought he’d feel one outside of a witch, regardless of his own damnation.

He’s not very close to a streetlight, but Dean would recognize the curl of that body anywhere, taffy limbs curved up and under, the shock of trim brown hair, tumbled against the penance of the ground.

Len’s body quakes; she’s a bloodhound, just like her old man, and she’s turning in his jacket, fists bundled and pressed against the warmth of Daddy’s chest. Dean’s arms are probably slaughterhouse-tight, and his voice is quicker than any blade he’s ever thrown when he speaks.

“Valentine.” Dean says, and she quivers once and stills, hot-frost of her breath enveloping all of the empty space inside Dean’s body.

Dean’s walking closer, autopilot, and he stops on a dime, can feel the tacky-sweep of blood under the soles of his boots; he knows that color better than life, or maybe, because of it.

Len’s trembling inside her cocoon, and there’s a high, desperate whine ringing in the air, and it’s too quiet outside for that, the windchime thrill of it.

Dean rocks back and forth on his heels, rubs mindlessly at the span of Lenny’s back, and she’s sniffling now, thick sounds.

Dean should probably move back, away, because Lenny’s scared, and she’s making that godawful noise, that crippled-animal sound, and this is gonna scar her in ways that Dean hasn’t yet learned the words for.

When Dean’s throat finally shutters in on itself, collapse of ruin, he realizes it’s been him, all along.

-

Sammy’s body curls up under Dean’s until there’s nothing but the memory of space between them. Len’s asleep beside them; Sammy’s not ready to move her to a separate room.

Dean doesn’t think she’s old enough for it yet either, but Sammy’ll keep her swaddled in Them until she’s an adult, if he can help it.

It’s not exactly done wonders for his sex life, but Dean’s bought baby monitors for this very reason, when he wants Sammy hanging off his dick, bow of his body poised before release. 

Dean traces Sam’s hip, watches in amusement as his brother twitches in sleep, mouth slack against the pillow. 

Dean knows every fault line, every stitched up corner that makes Sam up, and he revels in it, the uninterruption of dawn. Sam whines with Dean’s purposeful motions, inadvertently arches the knife of his hip up into Dean’s hand.

“Baby,” Dean tries, and the words are hushed, trickle of water from his mouth. “S’too early,” Sammy replies, and Dean snorts against his hand. Should’ve known Sam was awake; he’s been faking Dean out since childhood, only one Dean’ll stand for.

“For what?” Dean says, thick-whip of innocence.  Sam turns to face him, and Dean’s mouth dries up; he’s got the sickening idea that none of this is meant for him. 

Sam’s eyes are glazed over, swell of sleep still huddled within, and Sam runs warm at night; his cheeks stained fruit-dark, mouth falling open on wine. 

“Whatever nasty thing you’re thinking of,” Sammy says, doesn’t miss a beat, even numbed by sleep as he is. Dean snorts again, and it’s too loud; Dean can tell by the way Sammy’s eyes quickly flip open, lean body twisting away to catch sight of Len.

Dean’s propped up on one elbow, sheets cupped around his dick, and little else. Dean’s got a one track mind; he’s already said hey to his little girl, changed her and put her back to sleep, but Sam’s got his ass peeking out from under the habit of the blankets, and Dean reaches out to touch.

Sam’s cooing at Len, elegance of his fingers carding through the down of her hair. She’s fast asleep, hand tucked underneath her chin, and Sam’s not even breathing, so twisted up in his girl.

“Dean,” Sam says, and Dean pulls back, chastened, but then Sam’s turning to face him. Sammy’s color is high, and Dean’s heart’s making that stupid engine-clunk it does whenever Sam glances in his direction. “Sweetheart?” Dean replies, laying it on thick so that Sam’ll give him that half-moon grin he has.

“That’s ours,” Sammy says shyly, and Dean gives in, hooks his hand around Sam’s waist and tugs until his brother collides into his chest with a soft exhalation of air. 

“You sure?” Dean teases, laughs to chase away that languid feeling in his throat, “she don't look anything like me.” 

Sam pulls back far enough to wrinkle his nose up, and then he's pressing his head against Dean’s collarbone. “Shut up.” Sam says, but there’s no teeth to it, Sam’s got a fine tremble humming through him, and Dean wouldn't have felt it if he didn't know what he was looking for. 

“She’s my little princess,” Dean says roughly; Len and Sammy make up the only church he’d ever belong to, and Sammy’s gotta know that. Gotta have an innate sense of the fact. 

Sam squirms closer, burrows his body so tight Dean holds his breath for the hope that Sam’ll shove his way inside, splay out to rest adjoining Dean’s heart. 

“He’d have loved her?” Sam says, question-statement of it, and Dean kisses the crown of Sam’s head, nibbles a line of blush on Sam’s cheek. “Right?” Sammy continues, his breath harsh and damp against Dean’s flesh. 

Dean can't lie to Sammy, not when Sam’s got the ear for it; Dean gave it to him in spades as children and now he's reaping the fruit of his labor; the excess of Sam’s unflinching honesty. 

“She’d’ve won him over,” Dean answers, mails the truth of his words out to his brother. Sammy’s nodding before he's even finished, like he never doubted, like there wasn't anyone who couldn't love Len like he did. 

Dean’s inclined to agree; there's nothing on this Earth he’s got closer to his own chest, Sammy and Len vying for the same spot in separate arenas. 

There’s not enough of him to be deserving of the space they allot. 

“Alright,” Sammy says, and it's wistful, or maybe Sam’s just sleepy and Dean’s projecting like he's wont to do early in the day. 

Len whines in her sleep. 

-

Valentine sleeps through the entire walk back, head resting on the cut of Dean’s heart, even hush of it.

Dean scans the perimeter, keeps his head tilted back at the streetlights; the fluorescent glimmer of poverty. He doesn’t understand how he could’ve thought they should raise Len here, surrounded by graves.

She doesn’t stir when Dean sets her down, desert-drag of calluses against the whorl of sigils on her crib. It’s the nicest thing they own, next to the ‘67, and Dean spent months carving out protections, Sammy’s helpful eyes pointing out inaccuracies.

Sam, leaning back against the wall, leather-bound pages cradled in his hand. He’s heavily pregnant, but Dean’s boy is slight--not yet as broad and long as he’ll probably grow to be. The swell of him, gentle valley of his stomach, feather-thin with Dean’s world.

“It’s Greek, Dean,” Sammy says, fond-impatience, and Dean’s knees ache down here, this floor is unforgiving, and Dean grumbles that he always hands Sammy a pillow before he makes Sam kneel.

Dean lives and breathes and dies for that carnation-flush that Sammy provides when he’s embarrassed, and Dean eats it right up, reaches out for the handle of Sam’s ankle, curls rough fingers around it.

“You wanna try it?” Dean says, raises his eyebrow in false challenge; Sammy can’t even stand on his own anymore, wire-trip of his ribcage encircling their little girl.

“If you want me to,” Sammy replies, brow scrunched up as he tries to figure out how to peel his way from the wall to floor, stretch out those wheat-thin legs and eat up the ground.

Dean’s on his feet faster than John could ever teach, and Sam falters at the suddenness of the motion. “Christ baby, I didn’t mean it,” Dean stutters, and then Sammy’s grinning, slice of melon, and Dean could have his Last Moment, right here.

“I know,” Sam wheezes between laughter, book shut tight over his bump, other hand holding onto the downturn of the swell, fingertips white from where he’s pressing in so hard. 

“You’re easy,” Sam says, and Dean looks down at him, petty enough to relish the temporary inches he’s got on his baby, the sinner’s grace of his eyes. 

“Gonna distract me,” Dean mutters, drags the book from Sammy’s hand to clatter to the floor. Sam blinks heavy, and his eyes dart back and forth, Dean’s pendulum. Sam doesn’t know what he does--what the look of him is, and that burns Dean up brighter than any cause ever could.

“Like this?” Sam says, and his face is tense, carved up with worry and claret, dry-wine of his features. Dean’s flummoxed; he wants Sam in any way he can get, every piece of him he’s forbidden. 

“When you got our angel inside’a you?” Dean says, and he winces at the awkwardness of his words, Sammy’s the only one he’s ever offered incense to, but his girl’s right up there now, taking love Dean didn’t think he had left.

Sam ducks his head, that shy-feathered turn, delicate swath of neck. “You know that.” Dean tries, and Sam’s eyes flick up to meet his. 

“Know what?” Sam says, confused, and Dean wonders at the breathless quality to Sam’s voice, spun-glass delicacy of it. Dean’s not supposed to ruin it? Shatter this thing?

“Want you any way you are, baby,” Dean says, tugging Sam as close as he can with their kid between them, thump of her heart in tandem with Sam’s.

“Gettin’ soft in your old age?” Sam teases, because Dean’s not doing it for them. Someone needs to hold the reins, and Dean’s happy to hand ‘em to Sammy, slack as they are in his little brother’s grip.

“Just you,” Dean murmurs, tips Sammy’s head up and back and slots his mouth over the swelter of Sam’s, the drought of it, his tongue tentative against Dean’s. His baby’s good for it, but Sammy’s unartificial, slender fingers wrapped in Dean’s t-shirt.

“C’mon Sammy,” Dean breathes, propels the words into Sam’s mouth, and Sammy mewls, spine rucking up under Dean’s possessive palm.

Dean detaches from Sammy’s mouth with disinclination, shine of spit where Dean’s just marked his address, crescendo of Sam’s mouth under his.

“S’posed to be--” Sam’s voice falters on a gasp, Dean’s fingers coiling under his shirt to dance their way up Sam’s daughter. “We gotta finish it soon,” Sam continues, and Dean knows they should, been working for months on end, Sammy won’t rest until the headboard is covered with neat lines. 

Dean won’t lay her to rest in it until the wood has a blood-oath, sworn proprietorship to protect his child.

“Gonna,” Dean whispers, and Sam’s neck falls back; Dean doesn’t think, latches his teeth against Sam’s offering and tugs, numbs the skin between porcelain and rubs Sam raw with his want.

“Dean,” Sam says, and it’s so hushed that Dean wouldn’t have heard it if he weren’t attuned to the cadence of it, the Sam-speak of his name.

“I won’t forget.” Dean promises, and Sam’s body is saint-clean.

-

Valentine’s blankets are handsewn with sigils, Dalecarlian My Child Will Be Safe in the center, Sammy’s meticulous design.

Dean can do basic hemming, self-taught, and Sam’s even worse than him, no need for the knowledge. The blanket is Ellen’s gift to them, same cross-stitch of Jo’s.

It’s dark-blue, Len’s got an aversion to most things pink, to Dean’s amusement and Sammy’s obvious chagrin.

Sammy says there’s nothing wrong with being a girl; Dean thinks that’s all well and good, but how much chance does a Winchester have of appreciating dolls and falsehoods?

Dean swaddles her in it, same as he did with Sam, the blanket-burrito a familiar methodology. Her hair’s long, not that Dean has much in the way of kids to compare it to, but it’s hanging in soft curls around her face. 

His palm spans her entire countenance, and Dean watches the fine tremble of it passively; her face in repose.

Dean wonders what Sammy’s got planned for her year and a half mark, it’s coming up with a swiftness that Dean hasn’t stopped to appreciate.

Dean nudges a box out of his general vicinity as he rounds the corner to the kitchen, reaches up to the top cabinet to grab the salt. It’s industrial, generic cardboard packaging, and Dean flips open the lid before dragging the kernels down in a thick circle surrounding Len’s crib.

Dean glances up once when she whimpers, and then he closes the ring, steps up and over with habit. 

Len’s moving in her sleep, slack with restlessness, and Dean jerks himself free of the longing to touch her.

She whines once, and it’s sharp and low in unison. Dean holds himself upright, tangles his arms in his sleeves and zips up, snick of skin as the zipper accidentally cuts into his flesh.

He leaves her alone. 

He thinks that maybe old habits don’t die; they reincarnate.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four parts, because I have to make things symmetrical.

He’s freezing.

That strikes Dean as more wrong than anything else, and he’s helpless to examine the undeniable, immorality of it.

The enclosure of blood is larger than before, and Dean’s boots suction to the carnage as he presses through it. Dean kneels, knees syrupy with Sam, and he rolls his little brother over; it’s darker now, and Dean’s grateful he can’t see as well as he’d like.

They left his face unmarred, and Dean’s quiet as he takes in Sam’s countenance, the cavern-empty eyes of him, framed by tacky lashes, smeared with Dean’s own failure.

Rigor mortis has set in, and Sam’s so brittle in Dean’s arms, hunched in on himself, smaller than Sam’s got any right to be.

“Gonna stay stuck like that,” Dean admonishes, follows the hollow of Sam’s throat down to his chest, chiseled open with the whorl of trajectory, and Dean shoves his palm against the first wound. The shot’s precise, aim meant directly for Sammy’s heart.

“You wear black this morning?” Dean asks, in some confusion, because Sammy hates black. He’s more of an earth tones type of guy--except for Christmas, when he makes an effort to clothe himself in all things festive.

Sam’s motionless beneath him, and Dean’s hand is thick with blood, congelation in the webbing of his fingers, glue of his brother.

Dean finds the second entry-point, and drags Sam up, rests his brother’s back against Dad’s jacket.

There’s an exit wound for the first, but not the second, and Dean sees the tight-clutch of the hole, can tell the bullet is still lodged inside.

Dean swipes Sammy’s hair away from his cheek, presses a kiss to the grey there, hums Teenage Jail so that Sammy’ll have something else to concentrate on while he’s doing this. Sam’s squeamish about his own wounds, hates the poke and prod of healing.

“Hold on,” Dean commands, and he twitches his index inside, shallow thrust. Dean pauses, holds his breath still, but Sam’s silent, and Dean nods thoughtfully. He can feel the groove of metal, and then he’s pressing his thumb in alongside.

Dean’s fingers catch on the barcode of the bullet, the slick grip of it, and Dean jerks it outwards with practiced ease. The slower the pull, the more the likelihood of it being wedged deeper. Dean rolls the kill between his fingers, the width of it in his palm.

The abrasion collar is stretched wider from Dean’s invasion, and Dean shrugs out of his jacket, careful not to dislodge Sam from his slump against Dean’s chest. 

“S’cold,” Dean murmurs, draping the fabric over Sam as best he can, holds the bullet up to the non-light. 

He can tell from the weight that it’s a bigger cal, and now that he can see, his body tightens instinctively. It’s a .357, and Dean’s running hotter than he likes, casual hum of his heart exploding into something messier, some kind of blood-strain.

The recoil on this is nasty. Dean’s got a 31 with fixed sights back home, and he’d had to work up to it. It’s been known to dislocate shoulders, sever tendons. Dean’s lost feeling in his legs, recalls that a hit from that kind of punch slams home like a sledgehammer. 

The recoil is equal to the force exerted, and Dean leans away from Sammy, empties his barren stomach into the drain pipe beside them.

Sam’s head slips sideways, and Dean rights it on instinct, Sam’s hair catching on Dean’s chin.

Dean displaces himself from under the shroud of his brother, settles Sammy back down onto his back. He thinks about Len, glances up at the shock of night.

She’ll sleep through; he’s kept her up longer than reasonable, and then Dean’s standing, shoves the bullet into his right pocket and his bad knee buckles.

Dean lifts the hem of his shirt, drags it across his mouth-sewer, and bends back down, knee popping in lackluster protest. 

Dean curves one arm under the back of Sam’s neck; his little brother’s head flops uselessly, lolls against the cradle. Dean quickly hooks his second underneath Sam’s knees, even though Sam’s limbs are jolly-green and loose, knocked apart like storm.

Dean gathers them together and lifts, grunt of expenditure. Sam’s not cumbersome, never has been. The strain of him has always lain in his long limbs, but he’s slender, built waif-like.

Dean’s walking before he has much time to focus, look down on the vulnerable column of Sam’s throat, bent loose over Dean’s arm, hair fanned out like retreat behind him. Sam’s arm slaps against Dean’s thigh as he walks, gentle tap of limp fingers.

Dad’s jacket is caught between Sammy’s ribs and Dean’s chest, and Dean can see the slide of it, exposes the crimson peak of Sam’s neck.

Dean keeps straight, remembers that Sam’ll want to get home in time to tell Valentine good-night; he never forgets.

-

“We aren’t naming him Archer.” Sam says confidently, stretches up to reach the spices on the top shelf. 

Dean leans back against the counter in admiration. Watches the bend of Sam’s body, small, but defined curve of his stomach.

Sammy’s buying his shirts larger, but right now he’s tangled in one of Dean’s flannels, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and Dean’s dormant, primal brain is pleased with the sight.

“Why not?” Dean remembers to complain, and Sam’s holding paprika and cinnamon close to his face in some confusion.

“What?” Sammy says, turning to glare at Dean fully. Dean’s breath catches when he sees the stretch of Sam’s skin, Dean’s flannel hanging wide to charm him with this view. 

“Who’s gonna take him seriously?” Sam continues, high strain of color on his tip-tilted cheeks. “Everyone,” Dean says, eyes unwavering from his child. 

“He’s gonna be a badass. Archer Winchester,” Dean tests, and tries not to feel offended when Sammy snorts at the attempt. 

“Okay,” Sam says suddenly, fiddles with the hem of the flannel, black and green twisting his hands. “We can name him Archer.” Dean rears back, unwillingly pulls his gaze up to meet Sam’s confident one, serrated grin of his little brother.

“Really.” Dean says, and Sam nods, tucks his hair behind his right ear.

“Yeah,” Sam says, setting the spices down beside him. “We can nickname him Archie.” Sammy says, and his face curls up, chocolate-melt of love, and Dean’s eyebrows touch his hairline.

“Hell no. Hell to the fuck no, Sam.” Dean says, and Sam’s half grinning already, bastard that he is. “You sure?” Sam queries, and Dean wants to spank his ass candied-red.

“Damn straight, Sam.” Dean says. “You made your point. No Archer.” Sammy nods sagely, and Dean wants to push him to the ground, make Sammy curl his smart mouth around the crown of Dean’s dick until Dean’s the one grinning.

Sam cocks his head to the side like he  _ knows,  _ probably does, the fucker, and Dean crosses in front of him to stir at the neglected pot of mac n’ cheese.

Sam steps aside, he even makes cereal wrong, milk before Lucky Charms Dean’s ass, but Dean grunts in disappointment. He wants Sammy close.

Dean looks down at his brother, shawl of Sam’s head, and listens to the unholy stick of stirred noodles. “If it’s a girl?” Dean offers, and Sam squints.

“You think we can handle a little girl?” Sam says, and it’s stilted, the way he asks. Dean stops for a second, because that’s the kind of question he’d pose, that he’s been thinking to himself.

“Way I figure it, she’ll be made of the same stuff,” Dean says with a shrug. “Different parts,” Dean says weakly, because he doesn’t even understand how that’s supposed to work. They’ve lived in a man’s world for too long, apprehension at the dissolution of it.

Sam’s nodding though, and Dean quietly exhales. He must be making more sense to Sam than he thought, and that’s saying a lot. 

“Not Mary,” Sam says, and it takes a lot of effort for Dean not to gather his brother in his arms, smother him to death with understanding. “Nah,” Dean agrees, and he’s abruptly afraid that Sammy’ll want to discuss it, explain the reasoning behind the proclamation.

Sam doesn’t, surprises him once again, and Dean gets it. They already read that story. There’ll be no need for a sequel.

“I want--” Sam fumbles, and Dean turns the stove off entirely, pulls Sam in so that his little brother is surrounded by the cradle of his open legs.

“What?” Dean says, and Sam’s not looking at him. “I want her to be strong, y’know?” Sam says, and Dean hears that, the catch in his voice. 

“She’s yours.” Dean says, and Sam’s punching him in the sternum, knobs of his fingers stinging slightly. “M’trying to be supportive here,” Dean cries out, and Sam’s face is pinched.

“I know, you ass,” Sam replies, but he’s agitated, and Dean doesn’t know what his brother needs from him.

“We could name her--Linda,” Dean says, and Sam gapes at him for about fourteen seconds before he dissolves in laughter, palms braced on Dean’s biceps.

“We can--” Sam huffs out, and Dean reddens, because he knows it was a stupid option, but Sam shuts him off like that, burns him out.

“We c’n name my kid a middle-aged white woman’s name?” Sam asks, and Dean thumbs Sam’s laugh-tears away from his cheeks, rubs the salt into his fingers.

“She’ll come out--” Sam’s laughing again, and it scrubs his little belly against Dean’s flat one, and Dean’s dick takes painful, alert notice of the movement.

“She’s gonna come out having an affair and lying to her husband about it--” Sam chortles, and if Dean didn’t know Sam was happy he’d be concerned at the lack of air Sam’s taking in, the hysteria of his joy.

Dean hums in agreement, still baffled. 

“We having a trust-fund baby, Dean?” Sam says, and Dean’s had enough. Dean squats for a moment, wraps his hands around Sam’s thicker hips and hoists, turning and dropping Sammy onto the countertop with a grin of success.

Sam’s laugh dies a slow death, and he’s looking down at Dean with ill-concealed content. “Any other bright ideas, hotshot?” Sammy asks, and Dean’s about had enough of his boy.

“Don’t see you making tracks,” Dean says, looking down at the way Sam’s tummy is huddled underneath Dean’s hands. It’s slight but pronounced, one hand almost spans the entirety, and Dean’s dick valiantly twitches.

Sam leans into the caress, lips puffy with the way he’s gnawing on them. “M’thinking,” Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes. “Sure.” Dean replies, and Sam’s legs twitch from the wide-V Dean’s got him trapped in.

“Call her Lin for short,” Dean continues, because he’ll beat a dead horse if it’ll make Sam shine like that again, crack his little brother open on sunshine.

Sam looks intrigued, and Dean uses the opportunity to push the flannel down the brace of Sam’s arms, fabric bunched up around Sam’s wrists. 

Sammy gasps, but his eyes are onyx, and Dean catches Sam’s lips in his own, more of a bruise than a kiss, but Sammy’s gasping for air anyway. “Love you,” Dean murmurs, leans down and presses a kiss inside Sam’s belly button, and his baby wiggles at the feeling.

Sam’s open and naked for him, nothing but the catch of sleeves down on his hands. The protrusion of his tummy makes Dean want to rub himself off, and Dean tugs Sammy’s legs down, pulls that ass to the edge of the counter. 

“How about--” Sam hauls in his air, “What ‘bout Lin,” Sam teases, and Dean scoots closer, knocking Sam’s thighs even further apart with his hips, dick coming into covered contact with the lower drawers.

“More than you,” Dean lies, and Sam’s eyes widen infinitesimally. “Mean it?” Sam says, and there’s something hopeful in the asking. Dean stills against his will, head abuzz. Is that what Sammy wants? Dean’s afraid he’s finally met something he can’t give--he’s spent his whole life Sam-shaped.

He’s not meant to stretch, make himself incapable, but he’s praying it’ll become a part of him. The Sam-love of this gift that his brother made for him.

Sam’s still looking at him, stomach pushed into Dean’s hands, warm thighs trembling with the strain of waiting, the openness. 

“No,” Dean says, and he kisses his apology into Sam’s waiting mouth. 

-

It’s harder to swaddle Sam than it was Len, and Dean uses their comforter for it, spreads Sammy out starfish and then crosses his arms together over the mottle of his chest. 

Sam’s head peeks out when he’s done, and Dean crosses over to the bathroom to grab a washcloth. He tests the heat of the water on his wrist, habit of Len, and then uses it to scrub Sammy’s neck as clean as he can.

The washcloth is still soil-red when he’s finished, and the throws the thing into his duffel to burn later. 

Len’s waking up, Dean can hear it in the rhythm of her breaths, and he wants her to see her Papa the way he really is.

They’ve got enough saved to pay the rent on this place til June, and they were planning on heading out to Palo Alto then, regardless. Dean’s got the money stashed in four different places in the house, and he removes the wads methodically, tucks one roll in the inside pocket of Dad’s jacket and another in Len’s baby bag.

The last two are crammed into his duffel, and then Dean leans over Len’s crib, watches her eyes blink into awareness and she reaches her hands up in delight. 

“Da-ee,” she cries, her customary greeting, and Dean has to hold onto one corner of the wood before he implodes. “Hey precious,” Dean croons, scooping her up into one arm. “How’s my Valentine, huh?” Dean chatters mindlessly, and Len smacks his cheeks with one free hand.

“My special Valentine, huh baby girl?” Dean repeats, and Dean wonders how Sammy ever expected him to tame this child’s hair, cowlicks sticking up across the span of it. 

Len grins, small pearls in her mouth, and then jerks back in his grip, docility a remnant of last night. Dean hates it when she pulls away like that, spine bending unnaturally, and Dean used to be afraid she’d tumble right out of his arms.

As it is, he only twists her upright again and she giggles. “Da-ee go,” she says, and Dean raises his eyebrows. “Where you want Daddy to go, exactly?” 

Len swivels in his grip again, catches sight of Sam on their bed, preternaturally still. “Heart,” she points, and Dean wishes he’d buckled her into her carseat before she woke up this morning.

He doesn’t have to follow her line of sight to see where she’s gesturing, just like he knows he’s the reason she calls Sammy Heart more often than she’s ever said Papa.

Sammy’d thought it was Dean’s crowning achievement, cited it as reasons one, two and three as to why he loved Dean so much.

Dean glares at his brother, curses him under his breath. “Sweetheart, baby?” Dean says, Sam’s pet-name flowing off of his lips like a blessing. Len presses closer, forehead knocking against Dean’s cheek. 

“Heart go,” Lenny offers, and Dean turns away from Sam entirely, walks toward the door and drags it open. 

“He’s coming,” Dean says, crosses the street for the Impala, pops open the back door with a flick of his wrist. Lenny’s car seat has always seemed incongruous with the sleek death of the car, but Dean doesn’t spare too much time on the thought.

Sammy’d wanted something white for her, but Dean doesn’t want it to seem conspicuous, any further reason for the things they hunted to know what they’re carrying.

The seat’s black then, spray-paint over the swirl of flowers that Sam had insisted upon, pinks and greens that Dean doesn’t think Lenny would ever appreciate.

Lenny looks confused; Sammy’s here on the weekends with her, while Dean goes in to work the day shift. Sam’s adamant that she have a routine to rely on,  _ things  _ to rely on, and Dean doesn’t begrudge his brother the want.

“Going on a trip little lady,” Dean tells her, and Len’s eyes light up even though Dean knows she doesn’t understand, just senses change and is rolling with it, which is equal parts not-Sammy and him.

Dean’s good at strapping her in, Sam timed him and made him practice months before she was born. Dean had grumbled in irritation but he’d never shirked his duty. He can buckle her up with the same finesse of dismantling a weapon, and Len holds still, makes it a game.

“Da-ee win,” Len blinks, and Dean catches her fist in his palm. She’s got a smattering of words in her vocabulary, but Dean’s never heard that one before.

Dean bends down to kiss at the crown of her head, and she smells like her Papa, honey-forbidden scent of him, hint of powder behind her ears.

“Comin’ right back, baby,” Dean promises, and shuts her half of the car behind him.

Dean runs across the street, he’s giving himself two minutes for this part, and takes a good look at Sammy, sickly pallor of his skin, rotten-earth smell. Dean blinks down on the decay of his brother and steps closer.

Sammy always sits in the back with Len, but Dean can’t put him next to her, not like this.

Dean briefly considers the trunk, but his stomach lurches at the thought. There’s no way he can stuff Sammy’s limbs in that, break his brother’s legs in the process. Up front then, Dean nods, and Sammy’s even lighter than yesterday.

Dean keeps Sammy’s head tucked low under his chin, and he spares a glance for traffic before he jogs across the street again. 

Dean can hear Len’s happy squeal at the sight, and Dean leans low enough to open the passenger door without jostling Sammy from his perch.

Dean keeps one hand over top of Sam’s head as he lowers his brother inside, and then he’s propping Sammy upright, rests the pale of his neck against the side paneling.

Dean shuts the door quickly before Sam sways to the side, and then he runs to the driver’s door. Dean slides across the seat to re-adjust Sammy’s head so that it leans against the window for support.

Len’s still talking to herself, slap of booted feet against upholstery, and she’s making more noises than anything substantial. Her hat’s askew on her head, and Dean leans behind Sam’s seat to adjust it. 

Dean tickles her tummy on the way back up and she squeals, church-bell groan.  

Dean glances over at Sammy, comforter grey at his neck, and then he slams the door shut harder than he intended. Dean’s footfalls are oddly heavy on his way back inside, and he grabs Len’s bag and his own duffel up from beside the door.

Dean reaches inside Lenny’s things for her sippy cup; it’s gonna be a long ride and Dean’s had to prepare everything beforehand. 

There’s something from The Velveteen Rabbit scrawled on the plastic; Sammy’d picked it out, and Dean turns the thing over in his hand, impassive stretch of skin. 

Dean remembers the story, something or other that was one of Sammy’s favorites, a classic, he’s been told.

Lenny only likes Sammy to read it to her, same as she’ll only have Corduroy read by him. His child is particular, and Dean doesn’t think they’re doing much to rid her of the peculiarity. 

He twists the cup over to catch all the words, cursive transposed over the faint outline of a rabbit, bedraggled as it is with love.

_ When you are real you don’t mind being hurt. It doesn’t happen all at once. You become. _

Dean can see one more line, swirling under the first, and he wonders why he never read this before, why Sammy never bothered to show him. Man’s got a right to know what his kid’s after.

_ Once you are real you can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always. _

Lenny sees her sippy cup before he’s even fully at the car, and Dean hands it to her absently, runs his fingers over the swell of her cheek, concave of her mouth as she sucks, heedless of air.

Dean pops open the glove compartment, soft apology for Sammy’s limbs, tucked as they are into himself. Dad’s old burners are here, and Dean doesn’t want to take any of theirs along with him.

He’s already backing up and out of his parallel park when he calls, Len’s thirst the only backdrop to his nightmare, his tether to reality.

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean says, clearing his throat forcibly. “Got room for me, Sammy, and the princess?” Dean says, and he keeps steady in his lane as he watches Valentine turn to the side for her Papa in the rear-view mirror.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sam’s metabolism doesn’t fail him throughout his pregnancy, which concerns Dean almost as much as it doesn’t bother Sammy.

“She’s fine, Dean” Sammy placates, close to popping, and he looks at peace, sudden affinity for waffles notwithstanding.

Sammy won’t even let him get the off-brand; Dean’s singlehandedly buying Washington out of Eggo Buttermilk Waffles with a speed that frightens everyone but Sam.

He’s tried to stay to one clerk, Eve’s her name, and she’s young, but her face crinkles as she rings six boxes up at once, stacks them pretty-neat into Walmart bags.

“How’s he doing?” She asks, and Dean’s ears are slow to catch him up on what he’s supposed to be answering. “What?” Dean says rudely, and his face pinches.

“Jesus, sorry Eve,” he apologizes, but she’s smiling, maybe a little older than his boy.

“Sam,” she tries again, and Dean relaxes on instinct once he hears the name. “He’s fine,” Dean replies, and then he scratches his head, confused.

“He uh, he got mad yesterday, but I think it’s cause I thought I got him all Buttermilk, but there was a Blueberry pack in there--” Dean’s not even looking at Eve, his gaze fixed somewhere within the conveyor belt.

“I checked, this time,” Dean admits, and then he glances up; Eve’s leaning on her palm, following his every word with thinly disguised mirth.

“He cried all night, Eve!” Dean says, even though his voice barely raises from the monotone it has devolved into. “You’da thought I killed his dog,” Dean mutters, and Eve snorts, rising from her position to unhook his bags for him.

“All Buttermilk this time,” Eve promises, she counts when Dean looks too tired to do so, the way he often looks at seven am, smudges underneath his green eyes.

“Cool, cool,” Dean says, and he almost forgets the bags, again, until Eve nudges him with a corner of cardboard.

“Right,” Dean says helplessly, waving once at her in goodbye.

He’s two seconds away from reversing when he remembers that the groceries are still on top of the Impala.

-

“I just need a preservation spell, Bobby,” Dean says, and it’s hushed, Len curled up in his arms, one hand splayed against Dean’s shoulder.

Bobby’s hat is low on his head, and Dean can’t see his face, but he doesn’t need to.

“Dean.” Bobby says, and Dean wants to stop him right there, but he knows he’s asking a lot, doesn’t have the right.

“How long’s he--” Bobby stutters, and Dean’s not about to have this fucking conversation. “A day and some change,” Dean says, and then he’s taking the stairs two at a time, headed toward the same room Len always sleeps in when she’s here.

Bobby’s got his own crib for her, maybe not as extensively done as Sammy’s, but if Dean needed a close-second in a pinch, he’d opt for Bobby’s.

“Dean,” Bobby says, slightly out of breath from following Dean’s breakneck pace upstairs.

Dean doesn’t acknowledge Bobby for the minute it takes to dislodge his daughter’s grip and place her in the crib, and then he’s untangling her boots, tucks them on the floor beside the crib. 

Dean unzips Lenny’s jacket and characteristically fumbles when he tries to pull her arms out. He’s sweating by the time he succeeds, and she doesn’t move throughout.

Dean kisses her forehead, her cheeks, the button of her mouth, and then he’s upright and moving, brushing past Bobby in the unspoken command to follow.

Bobby obliges, and when they’re back downstairs, Bobby looks hard at him. Dean glances to the living room, Sam’s head tilted away from Dean’s sight and into the cushions. 

Dean can’t look at his brother anymore, not like this.

“He didn’t come home so we went to look for ‘im,” Dean begins, and Bobby doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t flinch.

“They shot him twice, .357 cal, Sig, I’m guessing,” Dean continues, like the light of his world isn’t wasted in Bobby’s living room, gelatinized blood and suffering.

Bobby’s eyebrows raise, but then even that is controlled.

“It doesn’t--it don’t seem like it took awhile,” Dean says, stupidly, and Bobby nods once, terse. “Go on,” Bobby encourages.

“I should’ve let him take the car,” Dean says, dead set on his transgressions, even if Bobby’s not the one to take them. 

“He says, he says I should drive back cause my work is so far and the library is closer to the house,” Dean continues, and Bobby’s moving closer. Dean steps back, crashes into an armchair and rights himself. 

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Dean hisses, and Bobby freezes in his tracks, that strange non-look on his face.

“He uh--he comes home at ten. He’s gotta tuck Len in,” Dean says, runs one hand through his hair. “She gets two stories a night, and there’s only one she won’t let me read,” Dean laughs, and it’s a strained, helpless sound in the solitude of Bobby’s house.

“He was supposed to be there,” Dean says, and Bobby still hasn’t moved.

“I went back’n got him,” Dean says, and Bobby’s face twists. “Jesus boy,” Bobby says, but Dean’s not listening, that’s not what he’s here for. 

“He’s light, y’know?” Dean continues, looks up at Bobby with some confusion. “He’s gettin’ so tall, all legs and arms, Bobby, I thought he’d weigh more.” Dean shakes his head and watches Bobby fold his arms tight across his chest, flip his cap off.

“Was like, like carryin’ a baby. Like Valentine,” Dean amends, and he fiddles with the hem of Dad’s jacket, rubs the fabric in between thumb and index.

“A lotta blood, Bobby. Not on his face, though,” Dean wonders, and he runs his palms down the leather. “Dunno how they managed that one. Nothin’ on his face.” 

Bobby’s face is pale, curdled, but Dean’s not got the time to stop for air. “I gotta go back,” Dean says, collects his duffel from the ground. Bobby’s moving then, faster than Dean’s given him credit for.

“For what?” Bobby says, voice raised. “What the hell you gotta go back there for? Huh?” Bobby says, knocks Dean back a step with his open palm. Dean’s weight is unevenly distributed, and he almost falls flat on his ass.

“To kill ‘em,” Dean hisses, and he dirties the air with the truth; so be it. “M’gonna murder every last one’a those sons of bitches and then m’bringing him back.” Dean says, lays waste to the room and his soul with the promise.

Bobby laughs then, and it’s cracked. “You just like your damn daddy, son,” Bobby mutters, and Dean knows--Jesus, you think he’s too dense to see the parallels, but if John felt for Mary even a tenth of the way he feels for Sammy, Dean doesn’t understand anyone better.

John climbed into his own grave with his eyes open, but Dean’s not allowed to permit himself the same luxury.

“You don’t get it,” Dean says, voice modulated to a false kindness, Lenny’s asleep.

“They shot him in the street.” Dean says. “They took my boy and left me his baby, and I ain’t made up like Sam, I can’t take care of her like that--not like this.” Dean gestures to himself, twenty-one years, blackened with loss.

Bobby’s shaking his head, and his tone has changed, even his posture has wilted.

“He gave you that little girl.” Bobby says pleadingly. “You can’t run off on her. Not like your Daddy.” Bobby admonishes, even though he loved John, maybe more than Sam and Dean combined.

“M’not my Dad,” Dean grits out. “She can’t have me like this.” Dean swings the bag back down to the ground and drags open the side-pockets. He grabs ahold of the cash and pushes them into Bobby’s unwilling hands.

“For her,” Dean says, and Bobby’s motionless. “I’d only hurt her, way I am right now,” Dean says, and he doesn’t know which of them he’s trying to convince more. “I’m gonna bring him back,” Dean says firmly.

“We’re coming back together,” Dean says, and he’s desperate to make Bobby see, make him understand what’s driving him. Love him.

“Dad never expected to come back at all.”

-

It takes eighteen hours to drive back to Darrington, and Dean does it without a family.

Len’s car-seat is absent, a gaping wound where there was once unmarred flesh. Dean loathes every second. Dean can scent the both of them, the innocence of his daughter and the slaughter of his sweetheart, and Dean breaks once for the bathroom the entire return trip.

He knows Len’s gonna be confused, she remembers Bobby but he’s not what she’s used to.

Dean knows Bobby’s gonna call Ellen as soon as he deems it a reasonable hour, and Dean breathes easier at that. Bobby’s never had kids, and Ellen’s raised a little girl; if anyone can watch out for Valentine before he gets back, it’ll be her.

He couldn’t ask her outright, though. Ellen doesn’t understand what it means to be a Winchester. She would have never let him go.

Dean’s not in the habit of allowing anyone but Sammy to  _ let _ him do a damn thing.

Dean bypasses their home on his way, his family isn’t there and he’s got no desire to re-open that can of worms. 

The sidewalk is pretty much untouched, it’s Sunday, not enough traffic around this neighborhood to warrant a police presence.

Poverty rate is high in this county, and there’s a direct correlation to the uptick in crime here. Dean figures he’s got about 24 more hours before someone takes notice of the dried mess, comes sniffing around to help too late.

Dean’s limbs protest his sudden movement when he parks and climbs out of the car, and his spine crackles with stiffness and nervous energy.

He doesn’t want to ever see this place again, this damned street where they took his brother’s life like trash. He wants no part of it. 

Dean crosses the asphalt, hovers just on the edge of the puddle and pictures the splay of Sam’s body, face down, legs rucked up underneath his torso, fingers wet with his own blood.

Dean’s jaw pops, he’s gritting it so hard, and then he thinks about it.

Sam’s wounds litter his chest, and from the spin of the bullet, not more than three feet away. Dean already knows that whoever did this has an affinity for guns, .357 isn’t something a beginner just knows his way around.

It’s a man’s weapon, meant for a cruel kill, and it can’t be justified as anything other than that. Dean remembers rolling his brother over, sight-touch of his wounds, sticky-heat of the bullet.

Dean drops to his knees again, careful to remain out of the spray of red.

There wasn’t anything on his face, not even a scratch. Sammy would’ve been bruised to shit if he’d fallen face-flat that way, and Dean hums, sharp edge of satisfaction.

They wanted to be sure. 

They turned him over.

-

Dean sleeps in the Impala that night, can’t go into a place where Sammy’s touch is everywhere, where Sammy brought their daughter home for the first time and slept right next to her crib, Dean’s body a close second.

S’not like his ride hasn’t been right there for it all, either.

Dean’s got one blanket and it smells like his brother and home and he freezes in lieu of payment.

-

Library’s open on Mondays and Dean knows the way by heart, picked Sammy up and dropped him off often enough after class.

Sammy did his homework here when he got too pregnant to comfortably go to school, and Dean remembers the librarian on duty today, he’d always bring Sam tea and crackers when his nausea got the best of him, watch out until Dean could trudge in to pick Sammy up.

Dean’s face is void when he strides to the front desk, and the man looks up with a slow blink of recognition. 

“Mr. Winchester!” The man grins, and Dean’s mouth curls into what he hopes is a smile. He must grimace instead, because the librarian, David, Dean recalls, reaches an arm out instead.

“Hey man, you alright?” David says, and Dean thinks about telling him the truth, hell no, he’s not, Sammy’s dead and crippled at Bobby’s and he misses his daughter like a limb, but Dean just leans one elbow onto the wood and shrugs.

“Been better,” he says calmly, and David remains unconvinced. “Sammy wasn’t here on Sunday,” David mentions, and then he flushes. 

“Not to be weird,” David rushes on, “I just always work the same shifts that he’s here, and he’s never not here, you know what I mean?” 

Dean’s jaw twitches and he smiles again, baring of teeth. 

“That’s what I came to talk to you about, actually,” Dean says, and it’s seamless, he’s falling back into Dean Winchester like he never left, like Sammy and Len are an unreachable dream he had the pleasure of having once upon a time.

“You’d tell me,” Dean says, leans forward, charm so thick that David can probably taste the margarine of it, slip-slide on Dean’s tongue.

“If anyone came in here askin’ about Sammy, wouldn’t you?” Dean says. David looks perturbed, and rightfully so.

“Y-yeah, but why?” David says, and Dean wishes he had backup, laughs mirthlessly when he imagines Sam in here, investigating his own murder.

“I worry about him,” Dean says, to cover his untimely amusement, and David nods. “No one bothers him, if that’s what you’re asking,” David offers, adjusts his collar with his free hand, catch of his necklace on his fingers.

Dean wishes he’d paid closer attention, he can’t depend on a civilian to give him anything of import, and this is one of his only leads. David taps at his hand, and Dean allows himself to blush when he realizes he’s stopped paying attention.

“I guess, I guess the only weird thing is that Sam wasn’t the only person to come in here every day.” Dean’s neck pops, he’s looking at David so intently, and the kid seems to feel it, blinks hazily under the onslaught.

“He never did anything, he came in a little before Sam and left after. He didn’t say anything. He always sat in the corner with his notes.” David finishes, and Dean wants to throttle something. Sammy, preferably.

_ Pay attention, goddamnit. Pay fucking attention. _

Dean carves his face into a mask of nonchalance. 

“Anything else about this guy?” Dean prods, and he’s crossing the border into shameless.

“He--he only checked out like, two books on all the days I worked,” David says lamely, like he knows this isn’t enough. Dean’s smiling though, honest-to-God grinning, and he curls his hands together on the varnish of the counter.

“Got an address in there somewhere? To mail those overdue fines to?” Dean asks, already figuring his way past David’s inevitable no.

“Mr. Winchester,” David starts, “I can’t just give that out. Sam’s been fine every time he comes here.” David says. “I dunno why you’re so worried, but--” Dean finds his entrance and cuts in, lowers his eyes in fear and anxiety.

“I haven’t seen Sammy in two days,” Dean replies, and there’s enough truth in the lie that it makes his voice unsteady. “I don’t know what to do. Lenny’s askin’ for him, and I don’t know where he’s at.” Dean sucks in his air, surprised at the depth of emotion in his voice.

“I just need your help.” Dean says.

David looks appalled, shock of dark hair flopping over the crease in his forehead. David darts his eyes around and then turns to his bulky computer screen, obscenity of his keys clicking in the silence.

“I’ll write it down for you,” David says earnestly, and he looks like a little kid, needy in his desire, wink of purple in the catch of his throat as he leans down to scrawl the address onto a piece of paper.

“Maybe Sam’ll come in later,” David says feebly, and Dean tucks the paper in his pocket without a smile. “Let’s hope,” Dean replies, and then he spins on his heel.

-

Bobby calls while he’s en route, and Dean almost swerves into oncoming traffic with the startle of it.

“Jesus,” Dean says when he picks up, and he hears his little girl wailing in the background, high scream of her displeasure.

“Ellen’s on her way,” Bobby says without preamble, and Dean grips the wheel that much tighter.

“She keeps going on about Heart or somethin’,” Bobby says, and Dean’s surprised that he can’t find any exasperation in Bobby’s voice, quiet note of acceptance and something uglier that Dean doesn’t want to look too closely at.

“Says Daddy about four times a minute too, you ass,” Bobby says, but Dean loosens his bones at the fondness of it.

“Can you,” Dean pauses, takes a left. “Can you put her on the phone?” 

Bobby grunts and then he hears Len, automatically closer to the speaker, he can tell by the change in volume. Dean jerks the phone away from his ear; Len’s never been this loud.

“Valentine,” Dean says, and he’s grinning against himself for the way she soothes instantly. He can see her now, catch of tears in the cornsilk of her lashes, face merlot and darkening.

“Len, you gotta be good for Uncle Bobby, hear me?” Dean says, glancing for Cascade St. out of the corner of his eye.

“Valentine?” Dean repeats, and he hears his little girl whine. “Da-ee,” she says, and it’s so tearful that Dean considers driving directly back to her; she’s never been separated from them before.

Of course, she doesn’t know how close Sammy really is, and she’ll never learn of it, when Dean’s got his way. 

“Gonna do better?” Dean says, and Lenny’s hiccuping, her go-to after one of her rare tantrums. “That’s my angel. Huh?” Dean says, taking a right at the end of rundown trailer park. 

Well, it’s good to know your enemy.

“You my sweetheart?” Dean asks, and then Len’s laughing, thick chuckle that belongs solely to he and Sam. “Heart,” she gurgles, and Dean’s chest bruises more painfully than before.

“Love you,” Dean says, and Len’s still laughing when her voice descends and Bobby’s comes back on.

“Don’t you die out there,” Bobby says, and then he’s hanging up before Dean has the chance to reply.

Dean closes his door so that it doesn’t make a sound, and tugs his Sig out of his waistband. He’s got no intentions of dying without Sammy.

-

Dean hip checks the door open, and it’s flimsy, wobbles once in trepidation and then it curls in on itself with a satisfying crack.

A woman screams at the onset, and Dean rolls his eyes.

It’s like that, then.

There’s a man’s voice now, deprecating, and Dean steps over the mess of the entrance and further into squalor.

“Goddamnit. Dammit, can’t you let a man get some goddamn rest Denise?” The man screams, his howls drowning out Denise’s wails.

“Going down under tomorrow and you’re in here screaming like you’re getting fucking raped.” The man continues, and Dean’s staring straight at Denise as he rounds the corner, dirty-blonde hair sweat-stuck against her head, stomach ballooned out before her.

Dean’s glad Sammy’s involved or else he would’ve wavered sure, but, as it is, he nudges her out of the way with the barrel of his gun, and she complies hurriedly, propels herself into the corner of the living room, one hand braced on the stuffing-tear of her mud-green couch, the other on her unborn child.

“You want dick that bad then come n’here and ask nice,” Denise’s whatever says, and then Dean comes face to face with the man himself, as tall as Dean but thicker, the way Dean imagines he’ll fill out in years to come, skin over muscle over bone under blood.

“Who the fuck are you?” Boyfriend shouts out, dog tags jingling against his naked chest, and Dean’s not scared of anything that’s got a beating heart and two legs like him.

“Look,” Dean says, and his voice is calm, supernatural of the hunt, and he’s got no qualms about killing this man right now.

“Two days ago a man was shot over near the library.” Dean pauses for effect. “You know anything about that?” 

Dean braces his legs for recoil and watches as Boyfriend’s eyes dart over to Denise. Her head hangs low, but Dean watches the careful set of her shoulder, graceless flop of her hand from her pregnancy.

“Well, fuck me,” Dean says, and swerves his aim from Boyfriend to Denise. Her head comes up with a swiftness that belies her condition, and Dean would be taken aback if he believed in anything other than his own senses.

“One warning,” Dean says, a kindness she doesn’t deserve.

“You’ll burn in Hell for the taint of him,” she says, and her voice is broken from her earlier screams, but Dean hears her with a clarity that he respects. “He’s unclean from birth, as are you and his spawn--” 

Dean fires once, aims up and a little to the left of her chest, watches the flower of her life bloom on her yellow dress, and she smacks against the wall, head snapping up and back to splinter against the aluminum of the trailer.

She slides down to the floor, falsity of her condition tumbling from underneath her dress, and Dean realizes, with detachment, that it’s a pillow.

Dean turns to Boyfriend, who is watching him with unconcealed malice.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he says, his voice all the more menacing for the lack of screaming. “She wasn’t supposed to touch him.” Boyfriend continues, and Dean’s arms are already burning from the brace of his body.

“Man like you should always lock up his weapons,” Dean says, and Boyfriend’s eyes flicker around the room.

“Keep ‘em close,” Boyfriend retorts, and Dean’s already pulling the trigger before Boyfriend can reach into his waistband with his left hand. Dean pops him in the forehead; he’s not wasting anymore bullets on these people. 

Boyfriend’s head splits wide with the force, wind tunnel of flesh and bone rupturing in the silence.

He’s a clean shot, doesn’t need the ugliness of more than one bullet. 

Dean knows Sammy wouldn’t have done it this way, would’ve asked more questions, but Dean didn’t come here for anything but revenge, and alone in his wasteland is the only place he’ll admit that.

Dean’s got one foot out the door when he turns back around and glances at the forensic nightmare inside the house.

He reenacts the moment, Denise’s screams, Boyfriend’s anger. 

Dean clicks the safety on his 31 as he takes off at the fastest sprint of his life, vaults over the chain-link fence at the edge of the property and slides over the hood of his Baby to rip open the door.

They knew he was coming.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Dean has the presence of mind to shrug out of the crimson-watercolor of his jacket, jerks his shirt down lower to hide the gun-bulge as he swerves into the closest parking spot near the entrance.

He needn’t have bothered, because the library is empty when he comes in, and Dean curses under his breath.

“Did you find him?” Dean hears, and David’s voice trickles over him like hindsight.

Dean turns around slowly, follows the concerned line of David’s face down to his tennis shoes, scuffed with the eternal Washington mud.

“Your talisman is too bright, kid,” Dean points out, never could learn to keep his mouth shut. “Onyx woulda served you just as good.”

David cocks his head to the side, kindness leached from his features like poison.

“Pride is a sin,” David muses, and Dean watches him untuck the gem from his throat. David levels a look at Dean, and he’s still smiling, although it’s years from reaching his eyes.

“So’s incest,” David adds, and Dean wants to laugh. As if that’s anywhere close to his problem scale right now.

“We could open the Bible together and break out some highlighters and just label the thing to Hell right now--” Dean starts, and he keeps his hands visible.

His Sig’s not gonna be of any use to him here, and he hates that.

“Or you could explain to me what the fuck this is all about.” Dean says. David’s rolling his sleeves up, blue-jean shirt cuffed around his elbows.

“Your brother’s unclean,” David says, and his voice is honest, if not amicable. “The Church gets ahead of itself sometimes. Now is not the time for your brother to die, but that day is near.” Dean rolls his eyes, choke of his heart in his fist.

“He’s already gone you piece of goddamn shit,” Dean grinds out, his body carefully unassuming. “Not by my hand,” David replies, and Dean nods.

“Sure. Sure. You let this--this fucking Church do your dirty work for you, and now what?” Dean says, fists so tight that he can feel his nails break skin, the slick-clean of his blood in his palms.

“What’s done is done.” David says, and now he’s walking closer. “He’ll come for his children, though,” David says, and his eyes are full of wonderment the closer he gets. David’s voice is resigned, like he receives nothing but distaste from the idea.  

“He always does.” David says, and he’s examining Dean with those too-dark eyes, the gentle sway of his talisman hanging from around his neck.

Dean’s pretty sure he’s not meant to make it out of here alive, but he appreciates the artistry of it.

Dean lunges forward with his one shot, the only thing left to he and Sam and his child, and there’s only regret for Lenny if this is how he dies, at the hands of this monster wearing human flesh.

“Gotta remember,” Dean says, as David startles back, his mouth open on an incantation. Dean’s two steps ahead, hooks the band of his own necklace around David’s throat until the horns of his amulet are digging into the cleft of David’s skin, against the flush of his neck.

“not to bend down,” Dean grunts, watches as the iron of Sam’s gift sizzles against David’s skin, and Dean grins.

Dean tugs tighter with the leather thong that’s holding the amulet together, places the flat of his other palm on the horned bull so that he can drive the entire thing into David’s neck if need be.

David’s face is devoid of color, and he’s quickly losing the air needed to speak.

“Bring him back,” Dean says, and David reaches his hands up to claw at his own skin.

“I can’t--” David wheezes, snakeskin eyes wide, darting about on nothing.

“I can’t bring people back from the dead.” David continues, voice an inch above a whisper.

Dean shrugs, placing his fear into a stranglehold for later. “You’re smart enough to do all this,” Dean says, his voice going tight. “You figure something out.”

Dean jerks one more time; he’s not bluffing, he’ll murder David and every other witch he hunts down until he finds one that’ll give him what he needs.

“B-blood-binding.” David hisses, and Dean loosens just a fraction, enough to show he’s listening. “Come again?” Dean asks.

“Blood-bind,” David repeats, his face still flaming and stretched, despair covering his features. “It’ll bind his life to yours. Your blood becomes his. His life is equal to yours.” Dean presses in on the iron just a bit, enough to make David scream out in remembrance.

“If--if you die, he dies. If he dies, you still live,” David says, and his hands are growing slack and cumbersome with the prolonged lack of oxygen.

“What do I need?” Dean says, his grief a living, tangible being.

“His blood and yours,” David says. “Mix it and drink, because he’s not living, he can’t complete it on his end.” Dean nods.

“That it?” Dean says, nerves scraped raw by how close he is, the sanctity of Sammy in his life for always.

David laughs, and it’s discordant with his state. “Blood magic is never simple,” David says, voice hoarse from mistreatment. Dean drags the leather tight again, and David renews his struggles.

“What else?” Dean demands, and David turns to him. “A sacrifice,” David says, and his eyes are listless. “A life for a life. By your hand.” David says, and Dean nods.

“Won’t work for too long,” David says, smiling congenially, and he doesn’t cry out when Dean drives the point of the amulet home, and the iron burns him up from within, twisting his body into convulsions long after Dean releases and backs away.

David curls in on himself and Dean watches as his flesh falls from his bones in clumps, the disintegration of his corpse in a matter of seconds.

When David is nothing more than ash and marrow before him, Dean bends down to snatch up the amulet, spit-shine of sacrifice in its crevices.

He considers how much more blood he’ll need to spill to get home to Sammy.

-

Dean calls Bobby once to tell him that he’s on the way.

Bobby doesn’t ask any questions.

-

Dean’s only familiar with the memory of sleep when he pulls up to the salvage yard, owner of one speeding ticket and around fifteen close shaves.

Len’s on the cusp of sleep when he returns, but Dean doesn’t have time to touch her, not when he doesn’t know the shelf life of this spell that David’s so graciously granted him.

Bobby stays out of his way, eyes him for the blood on his clothes and in his hair but doesn’t question a damn thing, and Dean just chalks that up to another gift he’ll be thanking Bobby for in the afterlife.

Dean skids into the kitchen, plastic cup clutched in one hand on the way out, kitchen knife in the other. Bobby raises a brow at the display, then moves to block Len’s vision, even though she’s curled up on an armchair and wouldn’t see regardless.

Dean slices open his palm with such a lack of acumen that he winces, and then he hangs his hand over top of the mug, watches it pool up, black and viscous.

Dean turns to Sammy, who hasn’t deteriorated from two days ago, and he smiles gratefully up at Bobby, who spares him one solitary glare.

“Get on with it, then,” Bobby says, and Dean’s already peeling back the comforter, stomach churning at the stick of it to Sammy’s clothes.

Dean drags the rim of the mug over top of Sam’s wound, the detrimental one; the kill shot. Sam’s blood is dead, it won’t flow the way it’s meant, but there’s enough of it to fill one gulp, and that’s all Dean needs.

Bobby’s a taut line behind him, and Dean swings the ceramic up and over his mouth, horrifying eight seconds where he thinks that gravity won’t take effect and he’ll have to suck it up straight from the source.

It’s thick like mucus in his throat, but he doesn’t gag, he couldn’t eradicate the willingness to save Sammy for something as trivial as taste. Dean thinks he’s gonna have to wait, remembers the callousness of David’s face as he’d warned him to hurry, and Dean crumples beside Sam, Sammy’s chilled palm resting in his own.

He and Len are gonna have to move somewhere far away after this, someplace untouched by Sam’s essence, and he’s gonna have to raise her right. Raise her alone, teach her about her Papa and his fucking stupid smile and his pulpit-eyes, and the way he looks into you when he just wants you to love him as much as he loves you.

“Boy!” Bobby yells, alerts Dean to the fact that he’s crying and not paying attention in the slightest.

He catches sight of Sam moving, quick jerk of his neck, and then his little brother’s rising, chest heaving in panic.

“Dean!” He cries out, tears streaming down his face like they must’ve been when he was dying, alone and riddled with holes and agony, his precious baby.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Dean says, can’t see anything past the shine of his own frailty. “Hey baby, it’s alright. You’re fine,” Dean continues, Sam’s eyes bright and wild and alive. Sam’s body melts into Dean’s, and he searches out Dean’s face with one hand.

“You’re perfect, sweetheart.” Dean says, and Sammy’s so confused, fever-pitch of his heart and the horror in Sam’s face hasn’t lessened one bit. “Valentine?” Sam says, just as crazed as when he first called for Dean, and Dean’s opening his mouth to reassure Sam; he’d never let anything happen to their baby girl, when Len saves him the trouble, scramble-falls down from the chair and runs in between Bobby’s legs.

“Heart!” She screams, and Sammy’s sobbing outright now, arms outstretched for Lenny to climb into.

When Dean catches Bobby’s eyes over the heads of his family; he finds his own reflection.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not ever mean for this to get so long--apparently I had a lot to say. This also ended where I felt like I needed it to, but also it's not quite a closed ending. This is subject to change.


End file.
